


Is a Hand a Vine

by WaldosAkimbo



Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, edibles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale's barber has given him some edibles to try for fun and Aziraphale decides to do them with Crowley. And the little drug trip that follows.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Quick and Dirty Good Omens Crack or Drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789003
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Is a Hand a Vine

**Author's Note:**

> Why does his barber give him an edible? Because the first time I tried an edible was from a barber and there you have it.

“I got it from my barber.”

“What? The cologne?” Crowley asks, plucking at the little dusty piece in Aziraphale’s proffered hand. “He went and changed it again on you?” The tip of his tongue peaks in and out of Crowley’s mouth. “Doesn’t smell different.”

Aziraphale lifts an arm, all dressed up in his wool cardigan, brassy buttons to the wrists and everything. Should be too hot like that, but Aziraphale was only as comfortable as he wished to be at any given moment.

“No, don’t think so. I like it. You never said if you—”

“I do.”

“Oh.” That settles something aching along Aziraphale’s brow. He sighs, a comfortable spoonful of cream resting at the bottom of the cup once more. “Good. Uh, quite!”

“It’s squishy.” Crowley lifts the dark amber-colored candy off Aziraphale’s palm and brings it close, then winces and holds it back out. “Smells funny.”

“A bit. But it’s supposed to be fun. Figured we had some time to kill.” There is a second piece, dusted in fine powdered sugar like a nip of Turkish delight. Close enough, even, as this one was supposed to be dosed with rose water to boot. They don’t know if it’s true or not. Hardly the point. “And I’d rather with you than with, er, I mean he’s a nice fellow and all, but I’d really not—”

Before Crowley can find an argument back, he claps hand to mouth and pops the treat in. The cube bounces off his tongue and straight on down his throat without chewing. Habit of his. But he avoids the taste as much as he can and sinks back onto the loveseat, spreading his hands out beside him.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s cheeks pinch upwards, crinkling his eyes.

He’s pleased. Course he’s pleased, he got Crowley to do something for him and he always enjoys that. Edibles or no, Crowley could always see whenever Aziraphale’s chuffed with whatever scheme he’s managed to rope Crowley into. Not even a scheme this time, just some recreational drugs. Fun.

“Right, then. Me too?”

“Go on,” Crowley says and flaps three fingers his way to do the same. Aziraphale wiggles – cute – and brings the jelly up to his mouth, small and pert and – beautiful – takes a bite.

His hum isn’t the usual _this is so bloody good I’m glad I’ve figured out eating and all the delights humans have offered in way of scrumptious treats_. It is attentive, studious, and that wrinkle means the flavour’s not something he’d hunt down when the mood strikes again. He puts the second piece away in a wrapper and Crowley sits up.

“You’re only doing half?”

“Think I might.”

“That’s not fair. You should’ve said!”

“Should I?” Aziraphale worries his eyebrows together and looks down. “I could still—”

“Only if you want to!”

“Why are you shouting?”

Crowley, prickled with a pinch of panic, tosses his hands up and then has them land heavily on the back of the loveseat again in strained defeat. He’s shouting because he is a mite nervous about this and thought, well, they are an angel and a demon and they could go and look after each other and, really, it’s just a small edible. Just some pot. Not even really that _bad_ , is it? Not like he’d caught all those respective adverts for children to say no to drugs watching his reruns of _Golden Girls_.

Commercials, mind you, are not his invention, but smashing ten of them into 30 second intervals every 6 minutes through a programme was a touch inspired because it pissed him off so much, he could only imagine what that did on a grand scale. He wishes, years later, he’d just gone and kept his mouth shut, but the wages had been so good with all those promotions…and nobody fucks with the poster boy until he fucks them back by tripping up an Armageddon.

“Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“Are you mad at me?” Aziraphale asks quietly, to which Crowley shakes his head and shifts himself, one snakeskin foot up on the armrest, then the other.

“Not really,” he says, and is relieved to find out that’s true. “Anyways, what’re you s’posed to do when you do…it?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it, and looks around a moment, his eyes slowly tracking through the shop. Whatever he spies must be the very thing he needs, because he gets up and goes to turn on a record player.

“Schubert?” Crowley wails when the notes come on.

“What’s wrong with it?” To his credit, Aziraphale looks and sounds genuinely taken aback by that. And Crowley really must crane his neck quite a way around the loveseat to see him. Should break his neck, if he wasn’t so adamant about keeping it unbroken at the time.

“You know.”

Clearly, he doesn’t, so Crowley flaps his hands together again, this time not an invitation for Aziraphale to imbibe but for him to come back over. He does so slowly, trepidatious, like he’s afraid one footstep will set off a reaction inside him that he can’t undo. Paranoid. It’s just an edible. It’s _just_ –

“You’re s’posed to listen to…to Moon. Er. Dark side stuff.”

“Dark?” Aziraphale’s shadow inches up Crowley’s legs when he comes round the back of the loveseat, back into proper view. “I don’t think I’d like that.”

“No. _Pink Floyd_ , that’s it,” Crowley says with a snap of fingers by his ear. It’s not the drugs that did it, just that he’d forgotten. Little human trick he picked up, that harmless selective memory. “You listen to Pink Floyd and you watch old movies and you…you…feel stuff.”

“Is that it?” Aziraphale pushes his lips out and nods, contemplative for a moment, satisfied the next. “We could do that just as easily with Schubert.”

“Fuck off.” But he says it too kindly. Crowley, indeed, does not want Aziraphale to fuck off. He’d rather he fuck _on_.

Or.

Well, wait a minute.

Chucking _that_ away like hot garbage, Crowley holds his arms out, his silent request for Aziraphale to settle into the shape of Crowley’s arms, the chalice of his being instead of just a cup. Just cream.

It’s a blessing – yuck – that Aziraphale obliges. Their tentative steps into this, the cuddling, was launched by that fateful night they switched faces. Switched quite a bit more, didn’t they? Days were spent clinging to each other afterwards, after the numbing terror sloughed off and they realized how they’d escaped it all and got the world out of the deal. The whole bloody world. Together. So, yes, Crowley wants Aziraphale atop him and Aziraphale wants to be atop him and it’s not just edibles that help push that along. It’s love, isn’t it?

Aziraphale puts his head right on Crowley’s chest as he settles in, the comforting weight of him pinning Crowley down so he doesn’t squeak out of his corporation with the unnerving thrill that this is their lives. Together.

Schubert aside – or maybe in spite of? – they drift together, letting time and notes plod along as they like. Crowley passes it by petting Aziraphale’s hair, threading it through his bony fingers, watching the field of bright silver part like rows of forbidden heavenly grass, an ocean of it, a stretch of heavenly clouds. Aziraphale hums appreciatively and closes his fingers around Crowley’s lapel. That preoccupies them both a time, until Aziraphale slides his hand to Crowley’s chest and up inside his coat, along his ribs. Nearly tickles. Crowley flexes his tongue and reminds himself he doesn’t need to be ticklish. Reminds himself he doesn’t need to be anything and everything, if he likes, and he likes being something Aziraphale likes most of all. More than liking what he likes. It’s a problem. But one to be scratched out of him another time.

The lounging stretches. It stretches. It stretches. It stretches on and Aziraphale lifts his head, which makes Crowley lose his hold on the silver wheat field of Aziraphale’s hair.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale must be watching him, and Crowley must be watching him back, but he also wants to close his eyes and return to the resting. Big thing, right? You listen to Pink Floyd, you watch old movies, and you just rest. Laze about. They’d been doing that and now, what, Aziraphale wants a chat? That might be part of it too, but he’d rather they do that with Aziraphale’s head back on his chest, thank you.

“Angel?” His voice sounds so normal. His breathing sounds so normal. They’re not meant to be normal and the solid normalness of it cements him. He’s a slab beneath Aziraphale’s body, his hips, his fingers.

“I think I’m hungry,” Aziraphale whispers. His face glows, but that’s just the lights behind him. “I think I’ll go find us some of those cherry tarts?”

“If you like.”

Help him, it’s so normal. It’s so solid. It’s so real, those words, how they fall out of him. How they trot out at exactly the right tempo as Schubert, and then exactly not.

Crowley nods when Aziraphale nods and he drifts away, blessing Crowley with his cement so he doesn’t float off the loveseat. He spreads out, the cap to a mausoleum that is his entire mess of a being and closes his eyes.

Or doesn’t.

It’s hard to tell. Sunglasses.

Somewhere. Somewhere. Somewhere Aziraphale has gone to rummage through desk drawers and out of cabinets that are nearly walled off by not-dusty-but-not-new tomes. Is it a tomb, then, if they do get buried in there? Is Crowley the cap? Or the foot? He scratches one foot against the other, vibrating down his spine when he scrapes a scale wrong and it makes his tongue, his weird, his slimy, his weird slimy weird tongue ripple against the roof of his mouth.

The music plods on, but it’s doing so at a dirge, growling around at half the speed, then less than that and Crowley has to wonder if perhaps that little gummy so-and-so dissolved in the acidity of a demon’s guts has gone off. He wonders…something. And even gets so far as to roll to his side and fetch his phone, the screen consuming his vision like a stadium, like the horizon of a great and terrible world all lit up, all blue, all fuzzy letters that grow too fast out of the weedy soil of this pixelated earth. He feels himself falling into it, and its not very much unlike the last time he fell into one, except there was a duke of hell hot on his heels and he was playing a trick. Now he’s got to figure out of this is a trick or a treat as his thumbs stab at huge, huge, _huge_ letters that take up plots in the bright blue sky of this tiny screen’s world that say H. E. L. before he drops it to his chest with a little _puh._

When did his feet slip into the vines of the world? When did they part, roots of an invisible forest, and slurp him up? He thinks it must be Her doing, right? Cocooning him up, swaddling him up, and he smiles as the shadows of nothing lope around his ankles and tug. He doesn’t move, you know, because he’s cement and he’s a tomb but, well, he thinks he sinks in. It’s not at all like falling, this sinking. It’s dipping into a cool but somehow pleasant bath, a balm, and even if his head is stuck, his neck will just stretch and stretch until his body is consumed by the earth, each bark-shed hand taking him in.

“Crowley!”

He blinks and feels himself sucked back up too fast in this body that apparently has a claim to him. Rude.

“You’re doing something,” Aziraphale says helpfully. He sounds cross. Crowley crosses his arms over his chest and then undoes that so he can grip the armrest and wrangle himself up into a human-shaped servant of…what? “With the _musi_ c.”

Crowley blinks. He blinks! And looks over and at that moment, his syrupy hold on time squishes out between his fingertips and the music starts back up again, same tempo as it should be when the record was first pressed. Right. _Right_.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, surprised his tongue is sand first and meat second and then the other way around. He sighs, too long through his nose, and reaches for Aziraphale again. “Mmhm?”

“Mmhmm,” Aziraphale answers. “Are you alright?”

“M’ clothes.”

“What about them, dear?” And as he asks, Aziraphale sits beside him, taking up his space but not nearly enough so that Crowley, in a fit of genius, rolls himself up and slops himself back out across Aziraphale. “Oh, hello. Someone’s feeling chummy.”

“Pet my hair?” Or something very similar comes out of Crowley’s mouth and he notices little crumbs stuck to Aziraphale’s thumb, so he takes it and helpfully plunges said thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue over it. Sweet. Salty. Savory. Salacious. Salvation!

“Oh, goodness!” There are fingers in Crowley’s hair – delightful – that tug at the roots before the seems to remember themselves and smooth out into a gentle logs. Aziraphale must like that. The whole thumb thing. And Crowley likes the whole hand thing. The one on his head. They must like things together.

Crowley closes his eyes and wraps his tongue more, felating the thumb with a warm, honey-hot moan.

“Oh. _Goodness_.”

It’s good. It’s _good_ , but it’s not enough. Crowley decides he could do one better and pulls off Aziraphale’s thumb with a little wet pop only to slither back enough so he could fumble with the buttons of Aziraphale’s slacks.

“Those are _my_ clothes,” he says, like Crowley doesn’t understand.

What he _doesn’t_ understand is why they’re still in the way. He groans, he grumbles, he whines when those fingers in his hair – is it a red wheat field? Is it a hellish field of fire instead of golden sunlight? Is he burning? Does he burn? – tighten again and Aziraphale yanks Crowley away from his groin, which only accentuates the needy hiss escaping Crowley’s taught throat.

“Do ask first,” Aziraphale says gently.

It slugs Crowley right in the guts to hear it, that guilt. He almost melts. He wishes those vines would have his ankles again and drag him back into the earth where he belongs. But it’s not vines, it’s an angel’s hands on him, pulling him not into the dark of rock and bones but into the softness of his tummy, in the softness of his arms, in the softness of his love. “Come here.”

“’M here,” Crowley answers, his voice sure. His voice steady. His voice weak. His voice broken.

“How’re you feeling?”

Like the world is a screen and he the tiny pixel on the precipice of deletion.

“Good.”

“Good,” Aziraphale repeats and Crowley wishes to pull his voice out of the air and paint it across his skin. Instead, he guides Aziraphale’s hand to the plunging neckline of his shirt and is confused when it’s Aziraphale’s turn to be cement. To stay put. Fingers stuck on his chest when they could go wandering and Crowley would really like that. Does he need help? Crowley tugs and worries a moment his angel’s gone and turned to a statue. “You’re very lovely, Crowley.”

“ _Clothes_.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphale leans over and presses his lips to Crowley’s forehead. “They’re lovely too.” And his hand is unfrozen, finally, _finally_ , so one must think they’re going to undress him as he wishes, but they just hold Crowley’s head in the pillow of his lap. They brush his hair. They love him.

“Lovely,” Crowley says through too soft a sigh, distracted by the wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, fucking _good_ that is having fingers scrape across his scalp with the utmost care. “Yer lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“Yer barber’s weird.”

“Little bit.”

“Drugs.”

“Little bit.”

There’s another kiss to his forehead. Or it’s the music playing and it’s hard to tell which is which. Doesn’t matter. Crowley closes his eyes again, and he floats, safe and still, knowing if God doesn’t have him, then Aziraphale does. And that’s just alright.


End file.
